


pbeebies: lollypop syrup

by bossymarmalade (maggie), maggie



Series: pbeebies [1]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Children's Stories, Graphic Format: GIF, M/M, Parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-03 03:57:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21173039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggie/pseuds/bossymarmalade, https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggie/pseuds/maggie
Summary: Gather round, children! It's storytime with Alfie. Please keep your hands inside the metaphor at all times.





	pbeebies: lollypop syrup

**Author's Note:**

> >   
**this is a slant on tom hardy doing cbeebies, by way of peaky blinders; the book in question is available on project gutenberg. it’s alfie/tommy if you squint and read between alfie’s lines XD**  


Hullo, children and those who used to be children and have retained an appreciation for the artifacts of their youth, wicked or benighted or idyllic or fucking otherwise. This is Peaky Beebies, and I am Mister Solomons, and today we will be visiting with what might have been a favourite of mine, had I spent any of my own years of being tiny in reading fairy stories instead of avoiding having my fingers stomped on by other children in between them gobbling down their Lord.  
  


The book is called “Little Jack Rabbit and Chippy Chipmunk”, written by some cunt, yeah, who couldn’t figure out the mechanics of a catchy title for his target audience.   
  


Just look at that manky blighter hustling down the street as though he’s got bloody _business_ to attend to. What can he be so excited about with his scarf flying out behind him to make him seem more important in the little provincial heath from which he hails? Well, lean in, children, lean in, and I’ll tell you --  
  


\--it’s Lollypop Syrup. 

Yes, that’s right, our mate here Little Jack Rabbit was careening cock-first through the Old Bramble Patch with nary a thought in his head about anything delightful, as he was burdened with brother rabbits of varying height and thick-headedness who only compounded on how dour Jack Rabbit, our mate, had become after his hopalong trip to France. And he was knocking his brains out over all this despair, yeah, when he happened upon a tree, right, and in this tree, screwed straight into the wood of it, was a tap. And from this tap, my little loves, there flowed the sweetest, most delectable white Lollypop Syrup that Jack Rabbit had ever tasted.

Now, Jack might have lost his zeal for life, but he was not a fool, children.  
  


He knew a good thing when he saw one, and he stuck his little bunny head under that tap and he drank and drank as much as could hit his little red tongue till he was fair choking on the stuff. And still that wasn’t enough for him. Rabbits sometimes do get that way, children, I will tell you that fact of life for free and gratis; they get a taste for it and then they’ll hide away in their little burrows and drink and drink until they’ve forgotten all about that fateful hopalong trip to France. But one warren is very much like all the others, innit? And Jack Rabbit, he knew that, deep inside.

So he thought to himself, “My my my, this Lollypop Syrup is superb, top of the barrel, and I’d very much like to take some home to eat with fucking buckwheat cakes or the like, whatever it is we fucking rabbits eat at home! I’d better collect some in ... this ... jar.” And he took out his jar and he began to let the syrup pour into it, smacking his lips at the thought of all he’d get to enjoy back in his cramped warren when the sounds of hopalong became Too Loud.  
  


But he’d forgotten something, hadn’t he, my doves? And that was the simple unassailable fact that Lollypop Trees, right, they did not grow wild. They needed to be cultivated. They needed to be raised, by hand, with care, with attention and protection and keen fucking foresight. And so it should have been no surprise at all when in the middle of his robbing himself a jar full of syrup, out came the Big Brown Bear, wanting to know, eh, who was stealing all his Lollypop Syrup?

A reasonable question, I should think.  
  


But this Big Brown Bear wasn’t angry, like he would very well have had the right to be, all things being accounted for and including the thick-headedness of those brothers that Little Jack Rabbit had at home. No, no! He welcomed the rabbit, welcomed him into his big brown cave, and he said, “Look here, at all the Lollypops I’ve got stocked up barrel by barrel! Aren’t you oh so very impressed, Jack Rabbit?” And Jack Rabbit -- who you’ll recall, children, I’ve mentioned was not a foolish rabbit at all -- exclaimed with the first delight he’d felt since those dreadful hopalong days, “Oh my goodness, you are a very wise and very valuable Big Brown Bear to know!! And I would very much like to avail myself of your stores of Lollypops, and Lollypop Syrup, and any other little thing that you may have that will make the heath respect me more. Do you have buckwheat cakes?”  
  


What a question to ask! Did he have buckwheat cakes? There was only one possible answer to that, children, and somewhere deep inside his scarfy little neck and rabbiting little head, Jack very well knew that answer. And the Big Brown Bear held out his big brown arms and said, “of course I do, little rabbit. Of course I have baked these buckwheat cakes that you’re so bloody fond of. Don’t you see? I have an enormous pile of them, right over there. And I make that pile bigger every single morning, Jack Rabbit.”

And then the Big Brown Bear said, “--and also every morning, I fucking _drown_ those buckwheat cakes with my unbearably sweet Lollypop Syrup.”

Jack Rabbit licked his lips and smacked his lips and bit his lips -- because sometimes rabbits do that, little ones, they do that if they’ve heard something they like but they don’t want to say so out loud -- and so Big Brown Bear said, “if you stay the night in my cave, Jack Rabbit, I will give you so much syrup, and all the buckwheat cakes you can manage for breakfast.”

Well.

Well, what happened next, children, is something that your mummies and daddies will have to explain to you, when you’re older. But I can tell you this: the next morning, after all the syrup had been drunk and cakes eaten in that big, echoing, dark warm cave, Little Jack Rabbit stumbled back up the road of the Old Bramble Patch with a head clear of hopalong and all the buttons torn off his vest. 

And that, my little treacle tarts, was only the beginning.  
  



End file.
